You never said a word
by ImNotStubborn
Summary: This is an AU for what happens after 710, Nothing Gold Can Stay.


_Thanks to my beta, Ethiercn!_

 _I've had this idea for the longest time, so please tell me what you think :)_

* * *

She calls again, and again all she gets is silence.

After years of dealing with Patrick Jane, putting up with his theatrical ways, getting him out of trouble and trying to justify – to others, then to herself – his classical runaway acts, apparently, that's all she deserves.

She sits in her chair in the big dark room, empty at this hour since everyone finally went home, and lets out an exhausted sigh as she rests her head on her desk.

Maybe she's just imagining things, it really hasn't been so long in Jane-going-awol time. Maybe she shouldn't worry.

She should go home, run herself a bath, relax… _then try to call him again and cry yourself to sleep when you still get nothing,_ her own voice snarls in her head, and she'd be annoyed if it wasn't a pretty good estimation considering the last few days.

So she stays here, alone, and thinks about it all instead.

* * *

It's been two weeks since she last saw him, two horrendous weeks she spent trying to decipher what the hell he truly meant by these last unclear words he spoke to her in the cemetery.

He went away because he needed space and time for himself, okay, fine. She told herself that she understood that, and it's not even a lie. She's had her share of grieving, and she gets wanting to do it alone.

Except Jane isn't simply grieving for Michelle Vega, or he would be taking her calls and letting her know where he is. Which means the pessimist in her who knew he might also be questioning their relationship – to what degree, she has no idea – is most likely right.

It wouldn't be too bad, since he did ask her to go with him, except... she didn't give him an answer.  
In her defense, at the time, she was trying to understand what the hell was happening, if this was simply Jane's insecurities and the pain of losing someone somewhat close to them expressing itself in the most inappropriate way possible; or if the man she'd loved for so many years and who she thought had recently been healing, was truly selfish enough to threaten to kill himself whenever she was in danger so he wouldn't have to suffer again.

She knew Jane enough to hypothesize that the former was more likely, still she could hardly find her voice to ask where he planned to go. He had left alone, and she'd told herself that maybe some time apart would help. That they would talk again in the morning if only through the phone, and that it would all slowly but surely get fixed – whatever it was.

But then night came along and Lisbon found herself on her own in bed, shivering all night because her silly body had gotten used, in the past few months, to almost never being alone under the covers.

She spent the next day quietly and increasingly angry at him after he didn't answer her first call – and didn't call back – and even if she reminded herself that it was probably the exhaustion from that one restless night talking, she stubbornly ignored the part of her brain pointing out that this could very well be the first of many.

* * *

It's been two weeks and one minute, and she remembers how on day three of his little vacation, she realized he didn't actually give her any indication of how long he'd be gone.

She'd been having lunch with Wylie at the time, something she'd cooked for everyone, because that's what she'd done the last time she'd been part of a family in mourning. When the younger agent had asked her in an empty voice if she knew what he could do to make Jane stop avoiding him like he'd been doing since the funeral, Lisbon hadn't even been angry. She'd felt the usual guilt over Jane's disappearance, the hurt she could see in Wylie's now always red-rimmed eyes deepening the feeling, and she'd gone out of her way to convince him that this, whatever it was, had nothing to do with him.

Since they were partners at work and she'd wanted to at least be able to explain the situation to her superior and colleagues, she'd had to try to call him, right?

It wasn't because she missed the sound of his voice, she'd reminded herself as she'd dialed, shooting a reassuring smile at Wylie from the break room – that he didn't see because he was, as often these days, too busy staring at Vega's former station. It wasn't because she was worried sick about what could be preventing him from answering his phone, or because the idea that he was willingly avoiding her was definitely not making her feel better.

No, she just needed to know that he would come back some time soon and that they could resume their lives.

And she absolutely would not focus on the familiarity of it all, of calling a number when you know no one will pick up, just so you can hear them talking once more. Even if it's on the neutral tone of a voice mail, even if your mother is never going to sing to you again and you'll have to stop torturing yourself like this when someone else eventually gets this number.

She'd caught sight of Abbott's worried glance from the doorway of his former office as she'd ended the unanswered call, and she'd strode back to her desk with faked confidence, avoiding his gaze and sighing in relief when he didn't follow to ask more questions she should have the answer to.

* * *

It's been two weeks and two minutes, and yesterday only she called five times.

She's been trying to keep her mind off of other times he left her or almost did, but she can't help herself.

She's been thinking of malls that lead to court rooms and almost-drownings that caused amnesia, of Las Vegas and the allure of its pretty serial killers' mistresses, of beautiful, bittersweet, betrayal-tainted sunsets. And as hard as she's tried not to, she's been thinking about vengeful murders and years away from one another, too.

She keeps dismissing these thoughts with a wave of her hand, but she still can't get rid of the heaviness that settled on her stomach, that twitches and threatens to empty itself every time she so much as hears his name around the office. And still, in the wee hours of the morning when she's too tired and the darkness of the night is too much to take, she's weak enough to let herself remember her childhood, from the car accident to the finally peaceful eyes of self inflicted death.

So she has to get up and do something to busy her mind, anything to stop herself from picturing a well-dressed corpse with blond curls and a wedding ring that's not even hers.

She's not exactly alone either, since the team – ridiculously short of members now – has grown closer together after the most recent events.

But she's Teresa Lisbon, and she'd rather focus on helping out a colleague who's young and dorky enough to remind her of other dorky boys she practically raised, than admit to herself that she's not fooling anyone when she answers questions about Jane with forced nonchalance and more questions of her own – her usual "why would he tell _me_ where he went?" has gotten her even more frowns recently than it did back in the CBI.

So she puts on more make-up to hide the bags under her eyes and plasters Brave, Unbreakable Agent Lisbon's expression on her face to go to work, because even if that's not who she is… That's who her people need her to be.

She repeats to herself that it's different this time around, that there's no serial killer obsessed with hurting him – hurting them – anymore, and that maybe, just maybe, not _everyone_ she loves has to leave.

She's been praying a lot.

* * *

It's been two weeks and three minutes and her head jerks up as the alarm goes off.

She looks down at the hand that's not holding her phone.

And of course, it's positive.


End file.
